Learning to Breathe

When I was little someone used to hurt me, and when they held me down they made it hard for me to breathe, made it literally difficult for my lungs to fully expand. I swear I feel like there has been an oxygen shortage in my world ever since.

Breath is the first thing we take in earth side, and having it stolen away seems to have left me always trying to find my way back to it. Like I wander, searching high and low, night and day, for those stolen breaths- thinking if I could just put them back in my lungs I’d feel better. But that’s not the way these things work, is it?

So I now have learn to do what comes naturally to many others; I relearn what came naturally to me before my oxygen was stolen. I learn to breathe. Even finding my way to that place, of learning how, has been something I’ve had to search out... but I’m finding it, slowly.

I never realized how often I think about it, how many times I mentioned it in my writing, in my conversations. Grasping for air had become so much a part of me that I didn’t even realize I was looking for it for the longest time, until someone pointed out the pattern one day, “You think your fear of not being able breathe could be trauma related?” I flippantly said no, dismissing not just the way I used it repeatedly as a metaphor in writing, but also dismissing the deep seeded, completely irrational fear of suffocating that I’d had for as long as I could remember. Denial runs deep when you let it, a couple of months later I started connecting the dots.

A friend read a piece of poetry I’d written recently and noticed (I hadn’t even noticed!) that I’d used it as a metaphor again, the piece was about a past emotionally abusive relationship, and the line was “I came out of the ocean he was, gasping for air but still breathing.” After she got done reading it she said “And the breathing again... bless your heart I just want to hook you up to some oxygen tanks and let you breathe deep!” That didn’t sound so bad to me actually- ha!

I know though, that “learning to breathe” obviously isn’t a physical thing- it’s a mental thing, an emotional thing, a spiritual thing. For me, I’m finding that breathing, looks a lot like talking about things I don’t want to talk about, discussing traumas that I’d rather leave untold- but when I open that door, it lets air into a room inside me that was stale from being so tightly sealed shut.

Breathing also looks like letting go, I see this when I consciously make my body relax throughout the day- I’ve trained myself to keep a white knuckled grip on me at all times- but I don’t want to keep living like that.

Sometimes I see the letting go when someone I really trust hugs me, and they all seem to notice it- which kind of makes me laugh- the way that if they hug me long enough (if I feel safe enough to let them) I let out a breath I’ve been holding and finally let down, finally relax. Sometimes when they feel me relax they laugh a little because we both know we were waiting for it, or some say “Just let go, you're safe,” or sometimes “There’s that sigh!” Or “It’s okay... it’s okay...” and then squeeze me a little tighter because they’ve learned how hard it is for me to stop holding my breath, to stop bracing myself for what seems like inevitable pain, to let my guard down. Ultimately, it’s me learning to trust, learning to let myself be loved.

After I’ve stopped holding that breath, I always take some deep ones to replace it. This is how I regain my stolen breaths. I regain what was stolen through fighting the lie that no one is safe, that I can only count on me, that I have to stay in complete control.

Letting people in.

Letting people help.

Letting go.

Take a deep breath.

It’s okay.

It’s okay.

Learning to breathe hasn’t looked how I thought it would- but I’ve got to say, I love the taste of oxygen.